


His Black Box

by LadyJade87



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJade87/pseuds/LadyJade87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone always thought Sherlock was a sociopath. Because that's what he always told them. Because that's what he wanted- needed-them to believe. But soon enough his facade starts to crumble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Everyone always thought Sherlock was a sociopath. Because that's what he always told them. Because that's what he wanted them to believe. Because that's what he needed them to believe.  
Only Mycroft knew how bad it truly got sometimes, and that's only because of the few times he chanced upon Sherlock on what he now referred to as a "danger night". And that was part of the reason Sherlock couldn't stand him so very much–he knew some of Sherlock's deepest secrets, and he could exposed them whenever he wanted for whatever reason he wanted, whether it be blackmailing him into doing his bidding or simply reminding Sherlock of the control he had over him. Which, to Sherlock, was merely another reason to avoid doing anything for Mycroft at any and all costs. Especially now that John was in his life. His best friend. His only friend. He refused to let Mycroft ruin that for his own vindictive, manipulative reasons.  
Sherlock could never let John know–he didn't think he could bear it if John ever found out, and particularly if he found out the same why Mycroft did. He didn't think he would ever be able to bear the anger, the disappointment, the sadness, the disgust, and goddamn it, not the pity. Never the pity. Not from John, of all fucking people.  
And yet, even with the soul deep terror of John finding out, it never stopped him. Hell, sometimes it only encouraged it, that shame and embarrassment he felt whenever he thought of what his flatmate would say should he ever find out.  
But still, on the days when his head wouldn't stop, in its endless deducing and perceiving, and his chest felt like he would never breathe again with the weight of everything he knew–everything little thing he saw and felt–he would still lock himself in his room, in his bathroom, with his little illicit black box, and indulge in so many things he knew would destroy him in the end. So many things that already were.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It started in middle school, like with most wayward souls, when Sherlock, and all his peers, truly started to realize just how different, how extraordinary, he was, even though no one else, including Sherlock, really saw it that way.  
While he had always been smart, observant, his entire life, middle school was the first time he really started deducing, starting seeing, knowing, all the little details of his classmates' lives. How the main bully, Jameson, was abused at home by his drunk father while his mother slept her way through the apartment complex, which was why he never had any money of his own and so readily went after Sherlock's abundance of it that his mother always left to the nanny to give him. And then how pointing out such things led to a broken nose, bruised ribs, and a quick trip to lonely lunches for the rest of the year.  
And that's when school, a place of learning that he had loved, became an absolute hell. Because he scared everyone away. Because he was a freak. A friendless loser that everyone hated. Even his brother refused to play with him growing up, or "hang out" as they started to get older. And it didn't help that his father worked nonstop and his mother was busy either faking her way through luncheons and social functions or in her room, tranquilized out of this realm.  
So, it's really not too much of a surprise when he turned to books, and began learning as much as he could about everything he possibly could, as far away from school as he could possibly get. He had even started reading fiction, mysteries, horror, cheesy romances he knicked from his mom's bookcase that were far too adult for most kids his age, books on science and philosophy, history texts, and anything else he could find.  
Which is where he first came across the concept. Self-harm. He already knew plenty on drugs from his mother and the overheard conversations of his peers. But self-harm, cutting, burning, picking…that was…new to him.  
And then he began finding it more and more in the novels he read. And he began to see the appeal more and more. But he never actually tried it; he was scared to, scared he'd go too deep or do some really horrible damage or something. That was until he and Mycroft got into a fight. After he had just had a fight with mum that morning. Followed by the nanny swearing under her breath about how much of a "complete fucking circus freak" Sherlock was. And then another trip to the Dean's office after correct his teacher once again and earning even more frightened and disgusted looks from his classmates.  
So yeah, when he got home and went out to hide somewhere in the expansive garden of the expansive Holmes estate with a good book, he didn't really want to deal with people, especially not his indifferent, newly asshole-certified teenage brother.  
But Mycroft had had a bad day too, and coming home to find that some of his new gadgets–birthday presents, actually– had become the latest in his genius little brother's experiment binge, he was furious and out to pick a fight with someone. With Sherlock, specifically.  
"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU]" Mycroft screamed as he finally found Sherlock, curled up under a willow tree with his latest book, after having to hunt for him for a good twenty minutes after finding his decimated presents.  
"What?" Sherlock asked, startled out of his literary reverie, and already taking on a quiet, submissive tone. He just wanted to go back to his book, forget the world for a while. Have the world just forget him for a while, just leave him alone. But the world apparently wasn't in a wish-granting mood.  
"MY FUCKING PRESENTS, YOU FREAK! I mean, seriously, do you have to ruin everything you touch? Do you do it on purpose or is it just another freakish talent you possess?" Mycroft snarled, yanking Sherlock's book from his protective grasp and hurling it away from them and into a nearby puddle.  
"I…I was just curious–I had read about the possibilities of long distance communication without the use of radio waves and I just needed a–" Sherlock's shy whisper was cut off quickly though.  
"ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? My presents, my fucking birthday presents, and you ruined all of them! You can't just wait til your own goddamn birthday and destroy your own fucking shit? You just have to ruin mine? Honestly though, I mean seriously, tell me, do you try to be this much of an irritating, impossible, freakish, little chit or does it really come naturally to you? And if the latter, who do you think you get it from, hmm? Mum in her usual comatose state or dad who's not even here to the point where he's probably not even own father anyway? But let me guess, you've already deduced all of that, haven't you?" Mycroft had stooped down and was face to face with a shaking, silently crying Sherlock, and holding him by the collar of his school uniform's shirt.  
"I'm sorry, I…I won't touch your stuff, ever again, I promise, I'm sorry, I–" Mycroft struck Sherlock across the cheek, the sound echoing among the surrounding trees.  
"You're bloody well right you won't! You're never to touch my things ever again, understand? Good." With that, Mycroft shoved Sherlock away from him and inadvertedly, his head into the tree he had just been reading against. Before he could began to care about his brother's current state, Mycroft swiftly turned and walked back up to the house, leaving a shocked and hurt Sherlock behind.  
Sherlock crawled over to his book where it had fallen, ruined, with tears streaming down his face as he slowly picked up his beloved book. Clutching it to his chest, Sherlock went back to his previous spot, and began to sob uncontrollably, already knowing that no one would hear because no one else would care or be bothered enough to come find him again.

After a while, once Sherlock had calmed down to mild hiccups and most of the tears had dried or been wiped away, he stood slowly and unsteady on his legs, as if Mycroft had struck those too instead of just his face, and made his way back to the house and up to his own room.  
Fearing yet another confrontation, he locked the door so no one could get in (he changed out the lock so that only he had a key) and made his way to his bed. Once he sank into its welcoming depths and wrapped himself snuggly in his warm comforter, he began to think. And remember all those things he read, the things that always seemed like they'd be too much for him. And they started seeming closer and closer–easier, even.  
As his mind began to close around the idea, he rose from his bed and made his way into the adjoining bathroom. Even though he was still in middle school, the bathroom was as fully stocked as any male bathroom. So Sherlock had no trouble finding a shaving set in one of the bottom drawers.  
With shaky, yet determined hands, he pulled out the elegant black box that would eventually come to represent so much darkness in his life. He undid the latch to exposed a expensive, old-fashioned shaving set his father had absently gotten him and Mycroft when they had each turned thirteen, even though neither would had use for years later. Or, at least, not the intended use.  
Sherlock brushed his mop of dark, curly hair out of his eyes as he pulled out one of the handled razors. He made quick work of the mechanisms and freed the individual razor blades. They were easier to work with. At least, that's what he told himself as he finally began to hesitate. He gently rested the blade against the soft skin of his forearm and paused. He knew the basics: shallow cuts, quick with just enough pressure, make sure everything's clean, clean and bandage afterwards, avoid major veins and too many at once, etc… but facing it all in reality was ever so different than reading about it in all the various novels.  
But then he began to think back on the events of the day, then on his life in general.  
None of them care, they've made that much clear. Even my goddamn family hates me. Mum doesn't give two shits about me. Father gives even less. And Mycroft out-right hates me now. He's right; I am a freak. Just like Ms. Owens said this morning. Just like everyone always says at school. So why bother? Not like anyone would care, anyway. And maybe it'll actually help, like it does for some of the people in the books. Maybe. But even if it doesn't, just another thing I fail at, another reason to hate myself along with everyone else. The thoughts tore through Sherlock's mind in rapid fire, becoming more and more self-loathing until his shoulders were wracked with sobs once more.  
Before he had time to hesitate again, he repositioned the blade, pushed down, and quickly pulled it across the skin of his forearm.  
He gasped at the pain. At first. But as the blood began to bubble up and drip down his arm onto the floor, he began to relish in it. Because it was like someone had turned this little pressure valve in his head and had released some of the unending pain from deep inside. But only just a little. So he quickly did it again, sliding the blade a few centimeters below the first. And again, the pain quickly turned to relief as the blood from that cut joined onto the mini stream of the other, dripping onto the floor as it began to coagulate there.  
But for Sherlock, it was only the beginning, as he continued to slide the blade across his forearm, taking his time to savor each one, and letting the endorphins start to take the pain from one cut away before starting the next.  
For the first time in his meager life, his was the one in control of the pain, not someone else.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

But the pain never really stopped coming, even as a grown man, sitting beside his bed at 221B Baker Street with John only just downstairs. Yet even as a grown man, he was still a freak to everyone around him. Always unwanted, and always having that made oh so clear to him. Actually, John was one of only a few people that didn't absolutely despise his presence, let alone continued company. But even John couldn't stop the ever-flowing torrent of Sherlock's mind, mostly because he could never possibly understand just how much of the genius's mind was constantly drowning and how little of his mind was ever present in reality of their cases or work.  
No, as Sherlock sat beside his bed in the middle of a random afternoon with his lovely, damning, elegant, black box, there was truly very little of his mind that wasn't drowning. Which is why, as he sat there shirtless and crying, cleaning the dried blood from some of his razor blades, he didn't really care where John was.  
Because John wasn't there, with him, helping him, holding him–anything.  
But then again, as Sherlock slid the blade across part of his abdomen, opening up a new wound below the previous ones that were still so fresh as to barely even had a fully formed scab covering them yet– he didn't really ever want John to ever see him like this or anything remotely close. Sherlock would do anything possible to prevent that from ever happening.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, after having been awake all night playing his violin into the pre-dawn hours, Sherlock was making some tea and waiting for John to come down the stairs and join him. Lestrade had sent Sherlock a text earlier that morning about a string of crimes the Yard was having trouble with, unsurprisingly. Sherlock had looked into some of the crimes on his own and felt that it wouldn't take more than an hour or two to not only solve the case but also have it wrapped up–at least on his and John's part. Lestrade and the rest of the Yard could handle all of the tedious paperwork, even if they couldn’t manage to do much else on their own.  
The kettle had just begun to whistle when a still sleep-laden John made his appearance in the kitchen. He was wearing just his sweatpants and dressing gown, showing off his smooth, and still well defined, torso. The scar from the bullet wound was barely perceivable as the dressing gown moved ever so, revealing it in the pale sunlight filtering in behind him. Sherlock's eyes briefly skirted over John's exposed body, marveling at its masculine beauty.   
Sherlock unconsciously licked his lips before seeming to realize that his was ogling at his best mate. He quickly scolded himself and set about finishing their tea, almost in an unknown apology to John for thinking about him in such an intimate way without permission.  
John appeared almost startled when the tea was placed in front of him, since Sherlock rarely if ever did anything voluntarily for another human being. Even if it was something as simple as tea, which he expected people to manage on their own, despite always asking John to make him a cup.   
"Lestrade called, we have a case, if you can even call it that." Sherlock smirked at John as he sat down with his own cup in the armchair across from the good doctor.  
"Oh? And what is it this time? Triple murder? Prison break?" John asked, waking up and sitting a little straighter in his chair. John was starting to get almost as bored as Sherlock himself, having nothing better to do but sit around the flat and work on his blog.  
"Hardly anything nearly as challenging as that. No, a string of robberies spanning the past few weeks. Never any evidence, always manages to avoid the endless cameras, that kind of thing. Oh, and they seem to like to leave a bit of a calling card from time to time." Sherlock drawled out in an uninterested, flat tone. They both knew this case wouldn't really last them the day, but still, it was something to do and they both figured they might as well help Lestrade.  
"Sounds…fun… I guess I'll be finishing up my tea and taking a quick shower." John took a final, long sip of his tea and stood, arching his back and causing the dressing gown to fall open over his chest. Sherlock gulped slightly and turned towards the window, unable to allow himself to violate his flatmate's privacy and decency like he was. John yawned, and took his tea back into the kitchen, gently setting it in the sink. "So are you going to be taking a shower? I know you were up til God knows when last night, but I didn't know if you manage to pause your music long enough to take a shower and whatnot." John stood leaning against the doorway, awaiting a quick answer before heading off to use up an appropriate amount of the hot water.  
"Yes, I'll be taking a shower, but feel free to take whatever time you need. We're not exactly in the greatest of hurries." Sherlock rolled his eyes and watched John shrug before turning and heading up to his room.  
The moment John was out of sight and Sherlock was sure he was busy, he sagged down in his seat, too bone tired to get up at first. He knew these days; they came more and more often lately. They were the days when he was bored to tears, yet never had the energy or will to move and do anything to end that boredom. He'd lie in bed all day if he'd been allowed to, even if it meant him going absolutely stir-crazy stuck within his own mind.  
And it was also days like this that always seemed to lead him to his black box, even first thing in the morning, because he knew he needed to move, to do something with his time without falling into a comatose like state.  
Which is why, after a few minutes of idle, maddening nothingness, Sherlock finally managed to pull himself from his chair and make his way to his own room. Once in his room with the door firmly shut and locked, he made his way over to his bed. Kneeling next to the headboard, he removed the framed Chinese piece to reveal the cubbyhole he had made in the wall. He gently took the box into his hands and lifted it carefully out of the hole. He knew it was probably one of the most basic and unimaginative–the most ordinary–of hiding spots for something so damning and important. But that was the beauty of it–no one would ever really look there because they all expected him to be so much smarter, so much better, than that.  
He gently laid the box on his pillow before carefully replacing the picture. That way, even if he somehow, eventually, got caught with the box out, they still wouldn't know where it, and several other illicit things, was hidden. At least then, he could maintain some semblance of control over it. Or something along those lines.  
Once the picture hung exactly as it had a few minutes prior, Sherlock took the box and moved to the other side of the bed, sitting on the floor with his back against the edge of the mattress. He undid the latch and began to remove a few select items until he was able to reach the ones he desired at that moment. Pulling out the recently sterilized syringe, his spoon, Zippo lighter, bottle of water, and small baggy of soft, white powder, Sherlock set the box aside and focused on the items before him.  
He knew he had approximately 13 minutes before John finished and emerged from his shower, another 7 until he was fully dressed and would probably be expecting to hear Sherlock enter the shower, and another 9 until he would become suspicious. So Sherlock also knew he had to move a little faster with everything than he normally preferred.   
Scooping out a medium amount of the snow-white powder and adding the correct amount of water, Sherlock lit the lighter below the spoon, calculating just how long until the solution became a homogenous, bubbling liquid based on the mass, melting point, and the approximate temperature of the flame. He knew he would most likely be fine on time in terms of a worrying John and any possible suspicion, but still. He wanted everything to move faster because he needed to feel the delicious burn of the cocaine in his thin veins.  
He needed this boredom to end, and he sure as hell needed the energy boost, if he was going to have to deal with Lestrade and all the incompetent idiots at the Yard. And his wish was on its way to being granted as the mixture finally reached a uniform consistency and he was able to pull the plunge of the syringe, filling it up with the delicious drug. Sherlock shed his own dressing gown and grabbed a nearby belt, tightening it around his upper arm and holding it in place with his teeth. He slowly flexed his hand, urging the vein in his arm to pop up, before finding the perfect point on the vein, and sliding the needle in. Pausing for a moment to make sure the needle was in correctly, Sherlock depressed the plunger, pushing the deadly drug into his bloodstream.  
Sherlock let out a low moan and let his head fall back, hitting the bed, as he began to feel the drug coursing through his veins. He quickly pulled the needle out, pressing his fingers to the small hole, and managed to undo the belt with his teeth (after all these years, he had somehow managed to become a master at that bizarre skill). He allowed himself a few minutes to enjoy the song in his veins before he heard the water turn off and John yell that he was done, Sherlock could get in now.  
But Sherlock couldn't care, not at that particular moment, not really, but when John knocked on the door, it startled Sherlock out of his drug-induced haze. "You getting in soon? While I'm sure this isn't the most pressing case for anyone, we should still probably get down to the Yard before too long." John called through the door. The knock was enough to awaken Sherlock back to reality and cause him to throw everything back into the black box, fearing John would somehow manage to magically unlock and open the door. After figure out that John wasn't trying to enter the room, Sherlock sighed and slouched against the bed. Then he remembered John was talking to him and was awaiting a response.  
"Um, yes, I'll be getting in momentarily, of course." He tried to sound as normal as possible, if that was even possible for 'The Freak', before looking around his room, trying to locate his dresser as if it had moved since the injection of the cocaine. Finding it exactly as it always was, Sherlock quickly rummaged through the drawers, selecting some pants and an undershirt, before grabbing a slightly used towel from the bin and making his way towards the bathroom.  
Once safely inside, he shut and locked that door as well, as if John or Mrs. Hudson might manage to undo the lock on his bedroom door for whatever reason and try to get into the bathroom as well. Dropping his clothes on to the bathroom counter and throwing his towel on a nearby rack, Sherlock quickly removed his clothing, but hesitated looking up into the mirror. Even in his drugged-up mind, he knew how horrible he looked. But still, he did look.  
He was skinny, abnormally and almost dangerously so, with skin as pale as porcelain and as unhealthy looking. He could see the raised scars and bumps littering his torso from years of cutting and burning and general self-harm, including the most recent ones only a few centimeters above his pelvis. He lightly traced his fingers over the wound, not even wincing at the slight pain anymore, and moved his fingers to the other marks; the cigarette burns, the cuts, the gashes, the chemical burns, all of it.   
He hated them and loved them at the same time. They were a reminder of every bad thing in his life, every bad memory and experience, and of himself in general. And he hated them for that. But he also loved them in their uniqueness, secrecy, and because of the strange sense of security the raised collagen offered him whenever he felt them. But still, they were ugly to most, and Sherlock knew that is anyone ever saw them, he was done, over with. Not even Mycroft had seen him lately, seen him in his naked entirety with the scars lacing every inch of reachable, exposed skin. And they both had a vague idea of what would happen to Sherlock if he did. A thought which sent a cold shiver down Sherlock's spine.  
Sherlock finally sighed, ran his hands through his mess of curls, and turned away from the mirror and towards the shower. Turning on the water and stepping in, Sherlock breathed in the humid air that was starting to surround him in the small bathroom and allowed his head to rest on the cool tile wall, simply feeling the buzz of the cocaine in his veins and relishing in the way it forced his brain into a rapid fire mode that drowned out everything but the simple facts. Drown out the pain and hurt and confusion and just the general shitiness of life.   
Sherlock stopped noticing the time pass, only noticing feeling the welcoming heat of the water as it cascaded down his bare back. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The first time Sherlock did cocaine, it was anything but planned or unwelcome. He was in secondary school, still as much of a hated freak as he had been in primary school, but somehow even more of a social pariah than before. Mycroft was gone, off at uni, so Sherlock was left without his greatest enemy but also his greatest protector because though Mycroft knew some of Sherlock's secrets, even back then before things got really bad and had seen some of them for himself, he was also fiercely protective of Sherlock, as most big brothers tend to be of their little siblings. And with his parents just as distant as ever and him no being "too old" for a nanny, Sherlock really was on his own now,  
Which also meant that no one really noticed when he was gone. Nor cared. So Sherlock could basically do whatever he wanted, when he wanted, so long as he didn't get caught by any outside authorities, thereby reminding his parents and others of his incompetence at general functioning in life.  
So when he snuck out one night, after getting the shit beat out of him once again at school, and went down to the shadier side of the Thames, no one noticed. Absent-mindedly navigating his way through the throngs of homeless and various low-class of London, he came across a group of teenagers his age and just a little older, though clearly none of them were in school or going to uni judging by the fact they all seemed to possess the grammar skills of a primary school student.  
Still, Sherlock approached the group as they huddled around a bin fire. They acted a little suspicious of the newcomer at first, but Sherlock gave a half-hearted, disinterested shrug and that seem to be some kind of universal signal because others of the group merely shrugged in response and went back to their truly enlightening conversation about skateboarding and how much the police sucked.   
After standing around for a while, Sherlock went to leave the small group and the warmth of the fire someone always made sure was still going. But one of the other teenagers, a girl with black hair and multiple facial piercings, grabbed his arm.  
"Oi, leaving before the fun starts?" She asked with a kind smile. Despite her appearance, she was remarkably peppy and one might even go so far as to say happy.  
"Fun? What? Are we going to be discussing the latest graffiti 'art' and deciding which low-class, unsanitary, disgusting hole in the wall we're going to grab a 'quick bite at'? And would that be after you're little lover boy over there screws pink hair, catching her obvious STD, judging by the constant shifting and supposedly inconspicuous scratching and the fact that she's throwing herself at your boy toy in some asinine way of proving that her current state doesn't void the possibility of sex and desperately needing some form of reassurance as to her appeal. Or after green jacket passes out and asphyxiates on his own vomit? Which, I guessing by the crowd's apparent indifference and green jacket's general state of attire, is something that has not only happened before, but repeatedly before, leading to you constantly having to move from spot to spot once the ambulance and police show up to grab his unconscious, idiotic self. Do you want me to finish out the circle or shall that be sufficient enough to get you to unhand me?" Sherlock snarled, looking down at the hand on his arm with contempt. He hated everyone right now, including his family, including these imbeciles around him, including the girl with endless body modifications touching him, and, especially, himself.  
Expecting the girl to be offended or scared off by his outburst, he was extremely surprised when she simply stared at him for a quick moment before bursting out laughing. "Oi! This one's a crack! Come on, mate, stay a bit longer, just til Skip gets here. Then you can decide whether or not you want to leave. And Skip's got the good stuff mate, promise. Oh, and Bobby! Get away from that one unless you want to catch something mate!" She added, yelling over her shoulder to the "lover boy". She continued chuckling as green jacket passed out, and she moved to nudge him over with her booted foot until he was on his stomach. She returned to stand next to Sherlock.   
"There, problems solved. Anyway, I'm Marge, and you?" She smiled at Sherlock in a way that stumped Sherlock once again. He expected just as much scorn and hatred from this crowd as he got from everyone else, and was surprisingly confused when they, especially this Marge, seemed to accept him without question or judgment.  
"I– I'm Sherlock." Marge stuck out her hand.  
"Nice to meet you Sherlock, and let me officially welcome you to the group." She began to make introductions around the circle, which seemed normal despite the fact he had been standing with them for almost an hour already without ever saying anything, let alone bothering to greet anyone. And yet they all seemed perfectly okay with that and not offended in the least. And Sherlock found that he liked it for some odd reason. Maybe it was just being accepted without it being forced with tight, fake smiles and hidden fear and disgust. But still, he liked this odd group of other unwanted misfits.  
Marge made conversation with him, just talking about absolutely nothing, but Sherlock didn't mind. Because, for one of the first times in his life, someone was actually talking to him, and genuinely wanted to be, for that matter.  
Before too long, Marge looked behind Sherlock and smiled even wider than before. "Oi! It's Skip! You better have brought the good shit, mate; my man Sherlock here seems like he's needing a fix!" Marge called over Sherlock's shoulder. He turned to see another young man, only a few years older than the ones that were already standing here, in dark denim jeans, a Beatles screen tee, and a slightly wrinkled, unbuttoned dress shirt.  
Again, Sherlock was somewhat familiar with drugs, the various kinds and their various effects, and he wasn't stupid or naïve enough not to catch on to what Marge had been saying. But still, standing there as the apparent dealer sauntered up dressed like any normal guy his age, Sherlock felt as if he was dreaming, as cliché as that sounds. Because he had a hard time believing that he was standing in the bad part of the lower side of London, surrounded by a bunch of junkies, as the dealer came up and pulled out a few baggies of various substances, in the middle of the night when he was supposed to be in bed at home.  
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Marge, I got the good shit, so calm yourself, woman." Marge merely stuck her tongue out at Skip as he joined the circle on the other side of Marge. "Alright, Benny! I got your shit." He tossed the bag that looked to be filled with marijuana to one of the guys on the other side of the fire, who barely managed to catch it before it fell into the fire. "Mark, mate, got your shit too, and thanks for the payment, by the way, it really came in handy," he tossed a similar baggie to the man standing next to 'Benny' with a smile and a wink. "Let's see, got Joey's shit," He mumbled almost to himself as he selected a bag and looked around the circle. Marge simply rolled her eyes and pointed behind them to where green jacket had passed out. "Oh right, here ya go, mate," Skip lifted Joey's jacket and slipped the baggie into his jacket pocket before pulling out his wallet and taking what Sherlock assumed was his payment. "Right, next, Cody, your supply of quick trips," Skip smiled as he handed what appeared to be a pack of stamps, which Sherlock (correctly) assumed was actually LSD tablets, to the man standing next to Sherlock  
"Thanks mate." Cody said with a nod before handing a small stack of bills to Skip and promptly leaving the circle.  
"Well he bloody well knows what he wants." Skip laughed and shook his head and Sherlock noticed Marge was smiling after Cody as well. Must be a good friend as well as a client Sherlock thought to himself as Skip continued to conduct his nefarious business exchanges. "Anyway, Lydia, here's your stuff and I expect your payment, in full, by Thursday, understood?" Skip stopped smiling as a young blonde made her way over to Skip and accepted the baggie filled with yellowish clumps of powder. Even though Sherlock wasn't very familiar with drugs in person, he knew enough and could read enough off of this Lydia girl to know that the baggie was most likely filled with meth, and that Ms. Lydia had had previous trouble coming up with payment before. But still she took the baggie and greedily opened it up, inhaling the scent of her addiction, before turning back to Skip.  
"Of course, mate, I won't be late this time, I promise." She nodded enthusiastically, as if that might somehow work as payment too.  
But Skip merely gave her a look, "You better, because you know the consequences. Manny isn't going to be happy if you don't bring the money because that means I'm not bringing in the money I'm expected too, so if I get in trouble, you get in trouble, understood?" It was the first direct indication that Sherlock got that Skip wasn't a one-man dealer. He worked for someone, which Sherlock had already suspected based on the variety of drugs he had showed up with. Dealers who were only out for themselves tended to have one focus when it came to drugs, with occasionally handling few select other type. But showing up with baggies that had at least 6 different drugs between them tended to indicate a more complex drug ring.  
Finally Skip turned to Marge, the rest of the group either sharing with the others or already having got their fix. "And for the lovely lady and her new friend, I see," Skip did a mock gentleman's bow and presented a baggie filled with fine, pure white powder.   
"Thank you, Skip! And this is Sherlock. He just decided to join us poor sods tonight and I swear he's fucking psychic or some cool shit like that, mate!" Skip immediately straightened up and became extremely alert as he scrutinized Sherlock, who simply rolled his eyes.   
"Oh do calm down, if I wanted to report anyone here, I could have done so an hour ago when I first showed up. Clearly since I didn't and still haven't, I'm not going to at this point." Sherlock stated in a bored monotone, carelessly waving his hand as if to demonstrate his point.  
"And why might that be, mate? I mean, seriously, why should I bloody well trust you?" Skip was defensive and the rest of the group had noticed the exchange by this point, all lowering their various fixes and staring, worried and even a little scared, as to how this was going to end and if they needed to start running.  
"Because I don't care. I mean, I'm hardly one to get all high and mighty about a person's vices considering my own and those of my family. Not to mention, yet again, that I could've called the police and told them enough to get each of you arrested on multiple charges mere minutes after I showed up. Do you lot truly understand how much of your illegal activities you wear on you? Hell, dear Joey here has at least two warrants out for his arrest, judging by the 3 fake ID's I saw in his wallet when you took your payment, as well as an extensive history with the police. Benny over here wouldn't last half a second next to a drug canine, what with the marijuana particles right there on his shoes, which most likely fell there when you went to roll a hasty, desperate joint using the last modicum of your stash before you came here. Lydia's clearly a prostitute as well as a meth addict, as is Ms. Pink Hair over there, because that's the only way they can manage to get enough money for drugs, which explains the STD I told Marge about earlier, by the way. Might want to get that checked out at a free clinic or something. Oh, and the fact that there are already several burnt up baggies in the fire, all the same size and made with the same type plastic as each other, and the exact same as all of the baggies you just distributed so this is a regular meet up for the exchange and use of drugs, a fact that most police would be very interested to learn. So yeah, mate, as I said, I could've called the police well over an hour ago, had I felt the desire, but I don't. Because I. Don't. Care." Sherlock stood there, breathing ever so heavily, very not used to any amount of confrontation. Or at least, not used to actually responding to confrontation in any amount.  
The rest of the group stood gaping at him, including Skip and even Marge, who had already seen part of his mental abilities. Several moments of uncomfortable silence passed as Sherlock turned to stare back into the fire and the others continued to stare at him, utterly dumbstruck.  
It was Marge that broke the silence.  
"I bloody well told you! He's fucking psychic! Oi mate! That is bloody amazing; you've got to show me how you do that! Skip, what did I tell you! He's cool, now calm yourself, ya sod." Marge continued to smile and laugh as she took some of the powder from the baggie and sat down on the ground, clearly over Sherlock and Skip's slight row. Skip just stared for a few more seconds before shrugging.  
"Eh, who am I to go against Marge, of all people? If she says you're an alright bloke, then I guess you are. We good, mate?" Skip stuck his hand out for Sherlock to shake, which he did with some reluctance.  
"I guess so, and you really don't have to worry, I don't intend n telling anyone since that would also mean admitting to my own presence here, which can easily be as damning for me as any of you."  
"Good to know mate, good to know. But seriously, Marge was right, you need to show us how you did that shit; it was epic, I tell you. It really is like you're psychic or something." Skip shook his head and chuckled, mostly to himself. It was the first time in his life that someone had actually found what he did, what he could do, interesting, let alone cool.   
Which is probably why, when Skip offered him a small baggie 'on the house', one a fraction of the amount of Marge's own, Sherlock accepted it. Much the same way Marge and Skip and this entire rag-tag group had accepted him. And when he sat down next to Marge, she showed him how to cut the cocaine into lines on the back of the book she had brought with her that Sherlock had somehow managed to miss until that moment. She showed him how to roll up a random pound note and snort the lines in quick succession, as well as telling him the things to avoid and what to be prepared for. She guided him through this new experience, all the way up until he leaned over his own line, the make-shift straw up to his nose, and snorted the line of fine, white powder into his nose and sinuses.  
At first, the pain in his head and sinuses was maddening, but Marge rubbed his back comfortingly as the pain gave way to his mind racing with, just, everything. But it wasn't any of the complete shit his mind was usually racing with. No. his mind was racing with beauty and science and thoughts that he never thought he would have, genius brain and all. He could now see so much he hadn't been able to before, and he absolutely fucking loved it.  
And Marge was sitting right there next to him, smiling up at him as she watched him experience his first cocaine high. And they both knew at that moment, and even Skip standing a few feet away could tell, that this wasn't going to be a onetime thing. Not even close.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock was shaken out of his reverie and he realized two things at once: first, the water was now freezing and appeared to have gone cold some time ago judging by the fact that there was no longer any steam in the bathroom and by the fact that, second, John was knocking at his bedroom door, calling his name.   
Sherlock quickly turned off the water, carelessly leaping out of the shower and drying himself as fast as he could manage, which on a cocaine buzz, was pretty damn fast. He yanked on his pants and undershirt before unlocking the bathroom door and rushing back into his bedroom, where he could more clearly hear John in the hallway.  
"Sherlock, are you okay in there? You can't have really been in the shower that whole time; the water has to be utterly freezing by now! Anyway, Lestrade called and would very much like us to hurry up and get over to the Yard. But really, are you okay Sherlock?" John's concerned voice drifted through the door, making Sherlock's heart clench in guilt, self-loathing, and reminding him what a complete wanker he was at times.   
How could he have lost track of time like that] Complete imbecile! That's what he was! Sherlock continued to chide himself as he answered John. "Yes, I'm fine John, and your concern is almost contagious, really. I'll only be a few minutes more, so you may head back downstairs and wait for me." Sherlock tried to sound as composed, apathetic, and as least drugged as possible as he found a clean, and even ironed, pair of trousers, along with a light blue dress shirt, sports coat, knit socks, and even a matching pair of shoes in under a minute and a half. He managed to dress himself and appear put together and business-like in only three additional minutes. He almost exited his room before running back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and almost tripping over some of the things from his black box on his way out the door.   
He started when he saw that he hadn't bother to put away the damning box and all its evidence, which he quickly did, kneeling on his bed to removed the picture, place the box in its hiding place, and haphazardly placing the picture back, not having the time to place it back in its original, proper position.   
He grabbed his watch and wallet before leaping down the stairs, startling a patiently waiting John. He put on his coat, scarf, and gloves before turning to notice John still staring at him.  
"Well, come on, the Yard is waiting for our expertise, as always, Dr. Watson." Sherlock gave a sincere yet cocky smile as he opened the front door of 221B Baker Street and joined the flow of London people and traffic. John stood opened mouthed for only a moment longer before grabbing his own coat and rushing after Sherlock as he waved down a cab.


	3. Chapter 3

The cab ride was fairly uneventful, aside from Sherlock acting a bit cooped up and on edge, but John put that down to boredom and potential interest in the case. As soon as they pulled up to the Yard, Sherlock jumped out of the cab, leaving John to pay the tab once again. By the time John exited the cab, Sherlock was already bounding through the doors and into the building, forcing John to jog in order to catch up. Which John did at the lift.  
"Sherlock, is there a particular reason as to why you're acting like a child in a candy store? The case only seems to be a 4, so I don't see why you're so excited all of the sudden." John inquired as he stood by Sherlock who was currently bouncing on the balls of his feet.  
"Oh come now, John! A case is a case! And it is still high enough to warrant leaving the flat. And here's our ride!" Sherlock hopped through the lift doors as soon as they opened, not giving a second thought to all of the people trying to exit who he merely pushed aside.   
John offered apologies on Sherlock's behalf as the disgruntled group disembarked and John was finally able to get on the polite way. "Really, Sherlock, must you be so rude at times? Would it have been so hard to wait a moment to allow those people to get off before barreling in yourself?" John asked with an exasperated tone as he pushed the button to Lestrade's floor. Sherlock looked over at John's comment and subsequent sigh. John met his eyes before going back to staring straight ahead.   
Sherlock immediately felt guilty for his actions. He hated it when John looked at him like that, like he was a royal arse and just so impossible. It made Sherlock feel worthless and even the cocaine coursing through his veins couldn't dull the sudden onslaught of negativity in Sherlock's chest. After a moment or two, the lift began to slow down, and Sherlock quietly spoken up.  
"I am sorry about my behavior, John. I'll remember to mind myself better in the future." Sherlock was looking down as he said this, and John could sense the sincerity of his words.  
"And that's all I was asking for." John gave him a pat on the shoulder before exiting the now open lift. Sherlock followed suite as they navigated the endless cubicles to Lestrade's office.  
When they arrived at Lestrade's open door, he was on the phone, but waved them in. John went ahead and took a seat while Sherlock remained standing, preferring to lean against the wall. After Lestrade hung up the phone, he gave an annoyed sigh and turned to face the two men in front of him.  
"Well it took you bloody long enough to get here!"   
"Sorry, but it doesn't appear to be the most interesting case and we are here because you asked for our help, so I don't see why we're being chided for you lot not being able to do your job." Sherlock replied coolly. With his arms crossed, he absent-mindedly traced as a scar he could feel even through his multiple layers, slightly unaware of his surroundings due to the cocaine still singing in his veins.  
"And you don't need to be an arse about being here either." Lestrade snapped back. He took a deep breath before standing. "Anyway, as I told you this morning, there's been a string of robberies over the past few weeks with seemingly nothing in common. At least at first glance."  
"Obviously you're still not looking correctly the first time." Sherlock continued to move his fingers across his arm, the movement barely perceptible. Except to those who knew Sherlock and a majority of his mannerisms. Like John, who noticed but didn't say anything, merely writing it off as some bored tick, like biting one's nails.  
Lestrade moved from behind his desk and stood directly in front of the two men. "As I was saying, at first they do seem completely random–an off-license, a pharmacy, a small bank, a local jewelry store, hell, even a bloody library! But then there began to be other things."  
"Like…?" Sherlock drawled out, encouraging Lestrade to get to the point and the evidence that was no doubt awaiting their inspection in a nearby room, and no doubt a room with Donovan and Anderson.   
"Like the fact that each location was equipped with a multitude of cameras and security systems, as well as the CCTV's outside, and yet there is nothing on the tapes."  
"They’ve obviously been tampered with."  
"Obviously, but there's the fact that they're perfectly synced, even to traffic passing outside, as if they were, in fact, rolling the entire time. They even have the various owners and workers showing up at the exact time that they arrived for work. And they're all closed circuit cameras, the one at the off-license still used VHS's of all things."  
"And yet they were tampered with." John added from his seat, finally joining the conversation.  
"Exactly. And then there's the calling cards. I mean, there are more similarities in method and whatnot, but you'll see those soon enough anyway, Sherlock."  
"Apparently not quite so soon since we're still stuck in here talking."  
"The calling cards aren't so much cards as items. Which, at first, weren't even connected to the crime they were found at, let alone to the other robberies–"  
"How not surprising."  
"Okay, are you trying to be a complete git today or something?" Lestrade asked, quickly becoming fed up with Sherlock's antics and attitude, despite his certain amount of tolerancce.  
"Perhaps, or perhaps I've simply developed a small case of cabin fever what with not being called to consult on anything in a good week or so. Yes, it started to seem as if you lot had finally learned how to do your job on your own after all. But I suppose not." Lestrade moved forward, almost as if to strike Sherlock.  
"You listen here, you arrogant twat, I–"  
"All right, all right, let's calm down now." John interrupted and quickly got between the two men, giving Sherlock an annoyed and slightly disappointed look. "Greg, you were saying? About the calling card?" John stepped back and resumed a business-like stance next to the two, although still prepared to jump in between the hot heads.  
"Right, as I was trying to say, they made no sense, so no connection was made. At the first crime scene, it was a coffee stirrer." Now it was John's turn to interrupt.  
"A coffee stirrer? Blimey, I wouldn't exactly call that much of a calling card either."  
"I know. Anyway, it was fairly front and center at the crime scene, which was surprisingly clean for a robbery, so Anderson went ahead and bagged it. Then at the next robbery, there was a plastic baggie. And again, pretty mundane except for being in the center of the crime scene. And again, it was bagged by Anderson. The next robbery was clean, no random trash in the middle of everything. But the following one, the library, caught our eye and forced us to begin to make a connection."  
"That must have been one hell of a task." Sherlock muttered under his breath. A disapproving look from John shut him up rather quickly though and forced another surge of self-loathing and guilt to flood Sherlock's mind.  
"Yes. Several books were stolen from a few various stacks but dead center between all those stacks was a set of study tables, one of which had the now trademark baggie with the coffee stirrer inside. Anderson bagged that as well, none of us quite sure what the bloody hell to make of any of it, when we got the call for the next crime scene before we had even finished dealing with the first. This time, it was a bank a few blocks from the library. And that's when the pieces starting making at least a little more sense; we came across the baggie and stirrer again, but this time the baggie was also filled with cocaine."   
At this, Sherlock's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Let me see."  
"Well there's still some more, and–"  
"Irrelevant, show me the baggies, I know you were planning on it anyway; it's why you bothered standing up and walking this way instead of just tossing us some case file. Now, show me the calling cards, as you so observantly call them." Sherlock's earlier apathy and disregard for the case was suddenly gone, his brain already making connections that the Yard never would be able to on its own. His tone was commanding, potentially even close to menacing, so Lestrade led them out of his office and down the hall, not really wanting to get in Sherlock's way.  
As soon as Lestrade indicated a specific room, Sherlock barged in, catching Donovan and Anderson in the middle of a shamelessly flirty conversation. They both started as Sherlock grabbed a pair of latex gloves and promptly set about opening the evidence with a pocket knife he seemed to pull out of nowhere.  
"Oi Freak! What the hell do you think you're doing] You can just tamper with evidence like that! I should report you–" Donovan began ranting at him as soon as he sat down. By this time, John and Lestrade were also in the room, staring is as much disbelief as Anderson.  
"Maybe if you complete and utter baboons had the slightest of clues as to what the hell were doing, I wouldn’t have to. While you were correct in collecting and bagging these items to preserve them as 'evidence', they will serve far more purpose being examined by someone with a skilled eye, not a set of bruised knees." Sherlock replied viciously as he laid out all of the 'calling cards' from the various scenes in order of their appearance. There were 2 lone coffee stirrers, 3 lone baggies, 1 baggie/coffee stirrer, and 3 baggies with the coffee stirrers and cocaine.   
"Um, Sherlock, cared to filled the rest of us in here?" John asked somewhat tentatively as the others continued to stare at Sherlock's disregard of protocol with shock.  
"Quite simple, really. Pretty much all underground drugs, from marijuana to heroin to cocaine, have their own specific composition. They–"  
"Yes, we're aware of that fact, which is how we are able to tell the difference between cocaine, meth, and sugar." Anderson smirked, as if he had actually managed to catch Sherlock off guard.  
"No doubt you've managed that most basic of forensic work, though I have to admit, even I do doubt your ability to do such routine and mundane of tests from time to time. And actually, I was referring to the fact that almost every drug dealer cuts his supply differently, almost as though they each have though own 'secret family recipe', if you will, for any given drug. Which you might know if you ever bothered to stop shagging Donovan enough to pay attention and do your damn job!"  
"Wait, so if we figure out the specific composition and chemicals in this cocaine, we can find a supplier, which could lead us directly to the thief!" John quipped as he figured out where Sherlock was going before the others. Sherlock turned from Anderson to face John, giving him a genuine smile, proud that his best mate was still quicker than the others.  
"Exactly, Doctor. Now I just need a microscope and–"  
"Why not just run it through mas-spec?" Lestrade asked from his corner of the room. Sherlock gave him a look as if to ask just how many times he had been dropped on his head as a baby.  
"Not specific enough, takes too long, and I would much rather see for myself than trust some machine Anderson's messed with and no doubt screwed up. Now, a microscope!" Sherlock scooped up the 3 baggies of cocaine and rushed from the room and down the hall to the lifts. The rest of the group rolled their eyes but quickly followed his lead, knowing that, if nothing else, they needed to keep an eye on the evidence Sherlock was so carelessly carrying.  
They made their way down towards the evidence lab, everyone trying to ignore Sherlock's sudden irritability and energy. He did claim to be a sociopath, after all, so could they really ever expect typical behavior from him? But still, they diligently followed him as he began to set up the microscope and various baggies. He added a few milligrams of cocaine from each other the baggies to their own perspective slides, then retrieved an eye dropper full of distilled water. He added a few drops of the purified water to the slides before setting the first one under the scope. John dutifully handed him a notebook and pen as Sherlock began adjusting and examining the sample. He began scribbling things down that seemed like complete gibberish to John but appeared to make sense to Anderson as he quite literally stood over Sherlock's shoulder, watching him work.  
"Anderson, will you please remove yourself and your overwhelming stench of onions from my immediate space? Really, I didn't think basic dental hygiene was still such a difficult concept in the UK. Now if you'll allow me to get back to–" Sherlock suddenly stopped talking, the pen in his hand hovering mid air.  
"Sherlock, what is it? What did you find?" John approached Sherlock's side and gently laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. That seemed just enough to wake Sherlock up again.  
"Quickly, Anderson! Do you have a more powerful microscope?"  
"Um, no, like Lestrade said earlier, we tend to use the mas-spec and–" Anderson stuttered at the unexpected outburst and question.  
"Gah! Complete baboons, truly!" Sherlock threw his hands off before rushing over to a refrigerated cabinet full of various chemicals and solutions. He punched in the code to the keypad and scoured the stock until here found the compound he was looking for.  
"How the bloody hell do you know that code? That's a crime, isn't it, Lestrade? Tampering with police things or something?" Anderson looked to Lestrade for support but the DI merely gave him an equally confused look in return.  
"Hardly my fault you make the code so easy to figure out or that you're not properly equipped with even the most basic of scientific tools and supplies." Sherlock mutter under his breath as he began measuring out a half teaspoon of cocaine from each of the baggies and into test tubes. The eye dropper that had just held the distilled water was emptied and instead filled with the liquid solution Sherlock had grabbed from the storage fridge. Adding approximately 7 drops to each test tube, Sherlock quickly disposed of the dropper and waited to see what would happen, as did the others standing around the worktable. After a few seconds of baited nothingness, they began to hear a slight hiss and the mixture began to bubble in the slightest, with the same reaction happening in each test tube.   
The pen Sherlock had just been holding clatter to the floor as the consulting detective was left absolutely speechless. A fact that most assuredly was not lost on the others.   
"What? The Freak finally met his match in a test tube? Makes sense since that where he was conceived in the first place." Donovan laughed at her own joke, Anderson half-heartedly joining in as he stared confused at the test tubes. Lestrade shot her a dirty look before sharing a concerned one with John.  
"Um, Sherlock, seriously, what's going on here? What did you discover?" John asked quietly as he went to stand beside Sherlock. Their arms and hips touching, Sherlock was briefly distracted but the delicious contact but was forced back into focus when he saw Lestrade pick up the notebook he had just been using. It brought everything back down again and his simply shook his head and little out a self-deprecating laugh.  
"It’s impossible, John, it really is." At this, he suddenly had everyone's rapt attention, not just because of the comment itself but because of the tone Sherlock had taken on. Not even John had heard him use such a tone before.  
"What are you talking about, Sherlock? Come on, you've got to tell us what's going on? What's in the cocaine, Sherlock? What did you find?" John calmly tried to coax a more informative response out of Sherlock before one of the others could cut in again.  
But Sherlock merely shook his head again and laughed, "It can't be. That mix, that recipe–it shouldn't be sitting there right now. And I would just say it's old, left-over batch from ages ago but if that were true, it wouldn't have reacted at all; the active compounds would've fizzled out years ago if that were the case. But you saw it as much as I did, a perfectly active set of compounds, still fully capable of chemical reactions!" Sherlock let out another laugh that had even Donovan and Anderson exchanging wary looks. Lestrade motioned for them to leave so that he and John could try and get more out of Sherlock without their annoying presence potentially keeping him quiet.  
As soon as they left, John turned back to Sherlock, laying a hand on his forearm and accidently touching the fresh needle mark was from that morning. Sherlock tried not to flinched back, but instinct and reflexes got the better of him before he could completely control his reaction. A small reaction that John still very much took notice of.  
"Sherlock, please, you've got to talk to us here because clearly you're seeing a whole hell of a lot that we aren't, so please, help us out here." John almost whispered to Sherlock where he still sat with a strained smile.  
"You don't understand, John."  
"No, I bloody well don't, which is why I really need you to explain this one to me, Sherlock. Can you do that? For me?" John moved his hand down Sherlock's arm, closer to his wrist and hand, and gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Please?" With that final note, Sherlock let out a deep breath and slumped forward until his forehead was resting on the cold metal worktable in front of him. John and Lestrade shared extremely worried expressions, both of them finally starting to understand that this wasn't just a case to Sherlock–there was something more–something personal– here and one thing they were sure of, Sherlock didn't do personal very well.  
Just when John was about to suggest they just go home for the day, Sherlock sat up with a sigh, running his hands through his already tousled curls. He steepled his hands under his chin in that way John had come to adore in the past few years but that currently sent foreboding shivers through his body. Sherlock noticed this and finally decided that he truly did have to tell them what was going on.  
"As you may know from my record Greg, despite how hard my arrogant brother tries to hide and destroy it, I was hardly anything of a model citizen during my time a Uni and the following years."  
"Yeah, I had seen a few disorderly charges and a possession here and there, but I'm far more concerned what a rap sheet that hasn't had anything new added to it in almost a decade has to do with this case or how you're currently acting, for that matter." Lestrade responded, crossing his arms and becoming increasingly worried over what he, and John, were about to find out about Sherlock.  
"It has absolutely everything. Those possession charges were only because I needed to keep another person, Marge usually, from getting taken in instead. My parents, as much as they detested to, could always bail me out, but Marge, she didn't have any options like that."  
"So you were protecting someone? Is that what you told the police when they asked what the hell you thought you were doing?" It seemed it was finally Lestrade's turn to interrupt and make little digs, and his turn to receive several reprimanding looks from John.  
"Of course I never told them that. No, I usually just annoyed the absolute bloody hell out of those cops until they'd either slap me with another charge or completely ignore me until my parents or Mycroft showed up." They all got a slight chuckle from that admission as Sherlock continued his ill-omened story. "Anyway, there's a lot more to it, but essentially Marge and I had the same dealer, Skip, who actually worked for a guy named Manny, Manuel if you want, who happened to be the leader of a fairly complex drug ring. After a drop had gone bad one night, Skip went to confront Manny, carrying only a shit pistol he had received as a form of payment once. That was a bad idea to start with, but it was made even worse in that Skip wasn't just bringing up the things he had noticed, the problems with how Manny was doing business, but also brought up some of the ones I had noticed from time to time in my dealings with Skip and his boss.  
"But Skip still brought them all up, obviously infuriating Manny at having a subordinate call him out and say he was shit at his job." Sherlock didn't fail to notice the raised eyebrow Lestrade shot his way. "Yes, well, I think we can all agree, challenging colleagues and friends is a bit different than insulting a crime boss with a short temper. As I was saying, Manny was utterly furious, and when Skip pulled out the gun, no doubt in some ill-planned attempt at a coup, Manny was faster. He pulled out his own gun and shot Skip in the chest. Repeatedly. Afterwards–"  
"Wait, I hate to interrupt because I very much do want to know where this is going, but how do you know this all happened? Please don't tell me you were there or anything, Sherlock." John gave his friend a deeply caring, deeply concerned look. Sherlock merely smiled this sad smile that made John's chest clench with worry. Because Sherlock didn't do emotions, didn't do sentiment, yet here he was, frazzled by a case and telling a story of his past that clearly upset him.  
"Marge, she was there, and she told me everything that had happened right afterwards. She and Skip had a fairly casual relationship, but they still looked after each other as much as they could, and always tried to stay friends, drugs and job aside. Anyway, Manny shot and killed Skip. Right in front of Marge, who he no doubt knew cared deeply for Skip. He and Marge exchanged a few words about telling no one about what she had just witnessed. Words that Marge clearly disregarded seeing as the first thing she did was come find me and tell me everything that had just happened.  
"Besides the loss of a friend and lover, that also meant Marge, and yes myself as well, were out of a dealer. Now, I came from money and knew how to skim more for drugs without being caught. But again, Marge didn't have that option. Hell, the only reason Skip continued to supply her even though she was complete shit at making payments was because he would occasionally take sex and various other work as payment. But again, they had a relationship of sorts, and one that most other dealers would never enter into with a client they knew used as much as she did. Too risky, even for them. This meant that Marge was screwed, for lack of a better word, because I could always find another dealer, seeing as I was always good for payment, didn't talk, and usually had enough about a dealer in 2 minutes to blackmail them into selling to me…"  
"But Marge couldn't." John finished for him, beginning to understand a bit of the relationship between Sherlock and this Marge of his past. Despite his claims of indifference, John knew Sherlock not only cared for a few select people, but cared very deeply for them and was extremely protective of them. Which is part of why he knew this story could only get worse, far past the point of learning that his best mate had done hardcore drugs in his early twenties, with a nagging feeling there was even more to the drugs than that.  
"Correct." Sherlock gave him another small smile before continuing. "And there was no feasible way for me to skim enough money at home to take care of both of our habits without being noticed, hers being far worse than mine. So we had to come up with an alternative. Again, I could go to any dealer I wanted, and had before that point, whenever Skip was busy, or it was dangerous or inconvenient for us to meet up. I'd simply go find my fix somewhere else, and having done so, I knew that Manny's cut wasn't actually that great. And I knew just how much he was over charging based on the quality. And I mentioned all of this to Marge. And I mentioned how we could not only have a steady supply but also kick Manny off the market, earning double what he ever did, by making and selling our own cut." Sherlock didn't bother to look at his two friends, knowing they would both hold looks of shock and disappointment. Yes, he was already far too aware just how far their disappointment in him went. But still, he continued.  
"So we came up with our own cut. It was far more pure than most any other cut out there, had less insolubles and was therefore less likely to cause an embolus, had different chemical compounds than any other cut which led to longer and better highs, and–"  
"Wait, I think I remember that shit! I was just a rookie then but even I noticed just how much trouble that stuff was. And to think! It was you of all people. How is that not surprising that you're the one that created a designer cocaine that had the Yard on its head?" Lestrade laughed and shook his head, realizing just how little was beyond the consulting detective's abilities.   
However, Sherlock took it a complete different way. Being reminded, once again, just how much of an intolerable freak he truly and sincerely was. And a reminder of just how much of a disappoint he was to pretty much everyone: his parents, Mycroft, Marge and Skip, Lestrade, and now, especially, John. But he knew he couldn't stop his narration now, and not just because the case depended on what he knew. So he reluctantly and tiredly continued, the remnants of his earlier cocaine quickly waning in effectiveness.  
"Anyway, we began selling, and using, our new cut. And as Greg kindly pointed out, it was a success. Soon all of Manny's clients that had once gone to him for cocaine were coming to us. And if Skip calling him out infuriated him, this enraged him beyond sanity. Which probably explains why he went out of his way to find out where Marge and I were staying and breaking into our flat at one in the morning. He, predictably, demanded that we stop selling to, and thereby stealing, all of his clients or he was going to kill us. Which Marge responded to by telling him to sod off, and that she was trying to sleep off her latest crash." Sherlock lowered his head into his hands as he was not only forced to remember that horrible night but also sit there and tell 2 of his only friends about his tragic failure to Marge.  
"Sherlock, it's okay, you can tell us." John whispered as he put his arm around the detective. If Lestrade noticed anything off about the contact and closeness between the two flatmates, he didn't say anything, instead choosing to focus solely on Sherlock and his story.  
Sherlock took a shuttering breath before looking back up. John and Lestrade were both dumbfounded as they saw tears forming behind Sherlock's eyes. But both of them knew better than to point them out.  
"He pulled that blasted gun of his and said 'Fine, sleep ya damn whore' and shot her in the head. Goddamn it, she was right there, next to me, just on the other side of the bed, and then she was dead. And I did nothing to stop it." At this admission, the tears finally began to fall as he remembered just how poorly he had been there to protect his first, best, and only friend at that period of his life. Lestrade and John were shaken for a very different, and admittedly probably more shallow, reason. Here was Sherlock Bloody Holmes, Moriarty's proclaimed Virgin, and the man who claimed he was married to his work, admitting not only to being a junkie drug dealer, but also living and sharing a bed with a young woman and his partner in crime. Both of their opinions and ideas about the great consulting detective were shifting, for good or bad, neither knew.   
John broke their stunned silence. "Sherlock, what could you have done? You're not some kind of superhero; you're nowhere near as fast as a speeding bullet, so I'm not entirely sure how you thought you could stop that from happening. And you just said that she had been trying to sleep off a bad crash from the cocaine, which I get the feeling means you were too. So what could've you have done?" John rubbed soothing circles down Sherlock's back as the taller man silently cried and Lestrade was awkwardly forced to watch on as to not miss anything.  
"I could've blocked it, kept it from hitting her." Sherlock whispered so quietly that even John, who was literally right next to him, had trouble hearing.  
"No. Just…no. No, Sherlock, because then you'd be the one that's dead, and I don't want to think about you being dead, not again, not after Moriarty and all that screwed up shit. There was nothing, nothing, you could have done. He was a violent, shut-out criminal that probably taking some of his product, just like you and Marge were. He wanted you two dead, and he was clearly determined to make that happen, understand? Just like with Moriarty, there was only so much you could do, Sherlock. Which brings me to another thing, this Manny was clearly hell bent on killing both of you, so how did you manage to escape his attack?" John had gotten so fierce with his words to Sherlock that Lestrade, harden DI and all, had to look away, feeling as though he was thoroughly stepping in an obviously private moment between the two odd flatmates.  
"But that's just it, John, I had a gun too–Skip's."  
"But I thought you sad it was a bad gun?"  
"It was, in Skip's hands, since he clearly didn't have the slightest clue of how to use it, let alone how to restore and take care of it. But I did. And I had it that night, right next to me, centimeters from my hand. I should've shot Manny the moment he entered the room. But I didn't. because I was fucking curious as to how everything would pan out. And it cost Marge her goddamn life. It's my fucking fault she's dead."  
John was shocked at the desperate sorrow and guilt afflicting his friend who had always so vehemently claimed how pointless sentiment was. Before John could respond, Lestrade asked the questions that still had yet to be answered, despite how important those answers were.  
"Look, I know that kind of guilt is hard to deal with, trust me, I bloody well know just how hellish that kind of guilt can be, but it still doesn't answer what this has to do with the robberies. And you still haven't said how you survived the vindictive drug lord. Nor why all of this has come up now."  
"Well, I'd think it was blatantly obvious how I got away from Manny; I shot him, wiped the gun, and left it near Marge. Looked like a drug deal gone wrong, nothing more. Which I suppose it was. As for what it means in the present day, that's where we hit a bump. Only Marge and I knew the cut, and I do mean that we were the only ones that knew how it was made–what ingredients and chemicals were used, how we mixed and processed them, and we were most assuredly the only ones that knew of that last special ingredient, the one that apparently gave the Yard all kinds of hell back in the day. Only us. Only ever us. And Marge is dead. And I can promise I'm not the one who cooked this batch up, nor did I, at any point, ever tell another soul about our specific cut."  
"And you said that this was a fairly fresh batch, that if the baggies were from back in the day, they would've got bad by now? Would've gone flat, in a sense?" Lestrade asked, finally starting to put together the pieces Sherlock had a while back.  
"Exactly." Sherlock gave a slight smirk as the true puzzle, however bitter and damning it might prove to be, began to come to full light.  
"So then who made this batch? And what does it have to do with the bloody robberies?" John asked, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms as he began to contemplate the latest case as well.  
Sherlock merely grinned like the Cheshire cat, all evidence of his previous emotional upheaval gone from his face. He stood, ignoring the baggies of his old product and made his way over to where Lestrade was leaning against the wall. He mimicked Lestrade's posture and looked from one man to the other.  
"Exactly."


End file.
